


No Choice At All

by cyanideSweetheart



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dirk dies, King of the Sun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7148879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanideSweetheart/pseuds/cyanideSweetheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If events in the first chapter of King of the Sun had gone differently.</p><p>(I just wrote this for needless angst haha;;; )</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Choice At All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Khemi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khemi/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The King of the Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6559138) by [dacadaca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dacadaca/pseuds/dacadaca), [Khemi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khemi/pseuds/Khemi). 



Everything about this continues to feel wrong. He was poisoned by Rose, or by someone whom he thought he could trust, someone else, maybe. Maybe not Rose. Not Rose, no, not Rose, he's sure of it. Everything feels wrong.

Everything feels wrong, and he's starting to not remember _why._

He clings to the last denial of the wrongness in his heart, the wrongness of the toxic words from toxically saturated fuschia lips, the wrongness of the whole scene- he _ignores_ it all. He can't do anything else, can he? He's never had a choice in anything he's ever done, and although holes are beginning to form in his memory like it's old fabric in a coat eaten by moths, he feels like that much is certain.

So fate takes a different path…..  
.…and Dirk proves the King of Prospit right.

He snatches the knife from the King's hand, like his haste will make his memory of why exactly he's doing this return. He adjusts his grip on it, sees the way the King tenses, and Dirk's lip curls in what might be a grimace, what might be a sneer, before he plunges it into-

_Why_  
_Why am I bleeding_  
_I shouldn't be the one bleeding_  
_Why-_  
_What's_  
_What's happening_  
_I don't_  
_under-_  
_-stand-_

Dirk's knees hit the floor with a sharp _thunk,_ and he grasps at his own breast, choking on his own blood and his own blade his own blade that's sunken into his _own chest_ and he doesn't understand _any_ of it. None of it at all. He gasps, bubbling and wet, a soft, pathetic whimper escaping him. The King stands frozen above him, his expression one of complete and utter bewilderment, like he isn't sure why his gamble _didn't_ work. Dirk can barely remember what gamble it was that he made, only that it involved a knife, and that knife is now lodged in his own chest, right next to his heart. It hurts more than anything Dirk's ever felt before, and he feels himself beginning to tear up, another wet noise clawing its way out of his throat. Everything feels wrong, and he doesn't _remember_ why.

His hands find the floor, after a moment that feels like eternity, and he's caught from falling sideways by thick arms that wrap around his torso and shoulders. It jars the dagger in his chest, and he makes a sound that's almost a scream, but dies halfway out of his throat, a garbled yelp. The King swears, and Dirk's distracted by the pain enough that another year, another five, slip out of his mind, and he can't remember who Rose is, can't remember the name of the girl with pink eyes that he seemed to love so much, can't-  
remember-

Dirk's eyes shift from his chest to the King's face, and he doesn't remember anything but his own name. He struggles to speak, coughing up blood, one of his hands clutching at Jake's nightshirt, smearing blood over the fabric. The- the man, the man above him, he seems, he seems so important, but Dirk can't remember who the man is, or why he's bleeding out- _oh right the knife but why-_ or where he is. His eyebrows furrow as he tries to remember, lightheaded with poison and blood loss.

"Who-" Gurgle. Dirk doesn't have much longer, he can feel it. He can feel his heart struggling to beat next to the knife that's now partially embedded in it, and he can feel it failing. "Who…"

Who are you?"

A different sort of light than magic dawns in the man's eyes, and his face softens with pity. "Jake," he murmurs, cradling Dirk in his arms almost tenderly. "I'm Jake."

Dirk feels like he did something wrong, to deserve that pity, but he doesn't know what.

"D- dhu-" Another cough, and a wheeze. His fingers grip the front of Ja- James- no- no, Jack- no- _Jake,_ it's Jake's nightshirt he's gripping, and he tries to clutch at the name, tries to remember it. "Dh- dhur- Dirk," he manages to choke out, and Jace- Jake- Jake nods a little, papping his cheek gently with a bare hand. But Dirk's not done.

"I'm s- soh- sorr-" He doesn't manage to get the whole word out before he devolves into another coughing fit, but he does, in the end, say it, as booted footsteps stamp the floor down the hall.

"I'm s- sorr- ry, J- Jake," he says, and Jake looks so confused. Dirk's the one dying, here, not Jake. He shakes his head, sighing, "Only one you have to be sorry for here is you, Dirk." Dirk doesn't understand that, obviously he deserves this, but he doesn't have much time to think about that before his vision starts blooming and burning black, and his grip on Jake's nightshirt gets weaker and weaker, until it eventually falls slack, and the assassin's heart ceases to beat.

The guards find their king with a lean man's body in his arms, the ward successful in defending Jake's life. Jake isn't certain, what with all the noise outside his door, but he could have sworn that Dirk breathed his last with a soft:

"Bro.…?"


End file.
